


White Christmas

by Astrophilla, sunshinewinchesters



Series: Destiel Christmas Advent Calendar 2015 [23]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 25 Days of Christmas, 25 Days of Destiel Christmas, Avalanches, Case Fic, Christmas, Destiel Advent Calendar 2015, Fluff, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Hypothermic Dean, M/M, Snow and Ice, Worried Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 18:57:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5509379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrophilla/pseuds/Astrophilla, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinewinchesters/pseuds/sunshinewinchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is hunting a mountain-dwelling monster in the snow, and all he wants is to be at home, spending Christmas with his brother and angel. As is typical in dangerous situations, Dean's luck goes very badly very quickly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written by sunshinewinchesters  
> Beta'd by Astrophilla
> 
> Type: Canonverse AU, established Castiel/Dean
> 
>  
> 
> **The twenty-third installment of our Destiel Advent Calendar!**
> 
>  
> 
> Other note: This fic has two parts and will thus be counted for two days. This chapter is part one for today, the next chapter will be part two and coming tomorrow :)

“Y’know, you should be freezing your ass off out here with me. You’re lucky you’re sick,” Dean grumbles into the phone he has pinched between his shoulder and his cheek. “Man, I think my fingers are already frostbitten. Why does this damn Sicko thing have to come out only during winter?” Dean huffs, watching disdainfully as his breath puffs out in a little white cloud.  
“It’s Tsiatko, first off,” Dean can almost hear Sam rolling his eyes, the sass most likely accompanying a bitchface. “And second, _you_ forced me to stay home. I can still come out there and help, I think my fever’s gone, and I—”  
“Nope, you’re staying put, I got this.” Dean puts an end to the discussion, drumming his fingers on the barrel off the sawed-off shotgun he’s holding in hopes that blood will circulate to his fingertips and prevent them from falling off.  
“But Dean—” Sam starts, but Dean doesn’t let him continue. They’ve already had this conversation, and Dean will always stand firm on his decision to put Sam on bed rest when the kid’s got a fever and throws up any solid foods he eats. Good thing Charlie is there to make sure he’s alright while Dean is away on the hunt and Cas is dealing with whatever is going on up in Heaven.  
“‘Sides, I can handle this one easy on my own. Did you find out anything else about it?”  
“Yeah, actually. I looked into some local lore, and the Native American legends make it out to be like a scarier, deadlier version of Bigfoot. They can control elements of nature and mimic voices like wendigos do. Oh, and they also love snacking on humans.”  
“Great, a wendigo copy cat,” Dean grunts as he climbs over a fallen tree blocking the path and continues on his way.  
“At least these ones are easier to kill,” Sam offers unhelpfully. “Charlie is making me take a shower, I gotta go. Call me if you need any help! And be careful, okay?”  
“Yeah, yeah. Go take your shower before you start smelling so bad that Charlie offers to take my place in the hunt,” Dean jokes.  
“Whatever, jerk,” Sam replies snarkily, and the two exchange goodbyes. 

Dean sighs, pocketing his phone, and adjusts his grip on the gun. It’s loaded with non-cannibalistic blood filled rounds, and if he can manage to get one of these suckers through the thing’s heart, it’ll be dead in no time. Worst comes to worst, he unloads a few shots into the creature and while it’s down and then gets it in the heart. The hunt’s pretty simple, though being so far away from home—somewhere in the Cascade mountains in Washington—while Sam is sick doesn’t sit well with Dean. That and the fact that Christmas is in only three days, and he’s preparing for it by hunting an evil Bigfoot monster in far below freezing weather when he should be figuring out what to get his angel boyfriend or how long to cook a ham in the oven for. Also, he’s not too happy about freezing his ass off in snow up to his knees. He’s wearing a flannel over a flannel and his thickest jacket, but he’s still chilled to the bone. The cold air bites at his exposed skin and burns his lungs when he inhales, and when the wind blows, it makes his eyes water. His fingers, toes, and ears are numb, and though he’d never admit it, he’s kind of wishing he’d taken Sam’s advice and just brought the damn hat and gloves. He’d been confident he wouldn’t need them, that it wouldn’t be _this_ cold, but as usual, luck is not with him.

He’s not exactly sure where he’s heading either, well, at least not specifically. Sam said to look for caves or some sort of sheltered hide out, and that’s where the Tsiatko is mostly likely to have made its den. If Dean can find it, he can wait it out inside and surprise it when it comes back, or if it’s already inside, all he’s got to do it take it down there. Definitely not a job that would require hauling a sick Sam into this God forsaken, iced over hell of a forest. Though Dean wouldn’t mind the company of a certain blue-eyed, gravelly-voiced angel, if he wasn’t busy with matters upstairs. Cas had promised he’d be home in time for Christmas, and now, Dean is determined to get this hunt over with and done so he’ll be back in time as well. With any luck, he’ll get done today and have some time to spare, which will no doubt be spent madly trying to get things in order. He should be taking care of Sam right now, should be in Heaven sorting things out with Cas, should be wrapping presents and looking up recipes for pecan pie, which he’s determined to make himself this year. But, as always, supernatural creatures don’t tend to comply with his time schedules. 

“Damn Tsiatko,” Dean mutters, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering. “Just get your ugly hairy ass out here already.” Grumbling more curses under his breath, Dean stomps on, each inhale of breath burning his airways with cold. His face feels numb, and right now he’s wishing he’d thought to buy a ski mask, not so he can rob a bank, but because maybe then he wouldn’t be wondering whether or not he’s got frostbite on his cheeks. The hunter falls into a rhythm, the steady rasp of his labored inhalations falling in time with each foot plunged back into the snow, taking him a step forward. His mind wanders, thinking about Cas, imagining them drinking coffee from steaming mugs, lying out in front of the fireplace and watching _A Christmas Story_ on Dean’s laptop. That’s why it’s awhile before he realizes the forest has fallen deadly silent, not even the songs of birds filling the air. It’s a silence that has his ears ringing as he comes to a stop, the crunch of snow under his boots leaving the foreboding quiet to settle in all around him. Dean looks up from the trail, turning in a slow circle to survey the land. Trees are on all sides, the forest floor covered in a thick blanket of snow, disrupted only by broken sticks jutting through its surface. Everything is frozen solid, impressive icicles hanging from snow-laden tree branches. Maybe it would be pretty if Dean could care about anything but the suspicious silence. 

Sam had said these things were similar to wendigos, so what if insulting it or saying its name or whatever pisses it off? Is that what this is? Because it could really speed up the whole process of tracking it down and waiting to ambush it. Plus, pissing off evil things that kill people is one of Dean’s favorite pastimes. With a shit-eating grin that may or may not actually be on his lips considering he can’t feel the muscles in his face, Dean cups his frozen hands and yells as loud as he can, “Come and get me, you ugly ass sasquatch!” Arguably not his most clever insult, but he’s too friggin’ cold to care. It’s obvious that the creature must’ve heard and is now good and ticked off, because just minutes later, the wind has come out of nowhere and is howling through the trees, making Dean’s eyes water and the cold penetrate through the layers of jacket and flannel. “That’s the best you got, Tsiatko? Some wind? Yeah, I’m shaking in my boots,” Dean calls, but the wind tears the words away as soon as they leave his lips. It’s growing stronger by the minute, the gusts picking up to gale force, sending the snow that had amassed on the tree branches whipping sideways at him, the cold so intense he actually feels it biting at his numb skin. The sound of it resonates in his bones, an eerie, low whine piercing the tumultuous roar and making his frozen eardrums ache. Oh yeah, it’s furious.

Dean’s fingers constrict tighter around the shotgun as he holds it at the ready, blinking hard against the tears being jerked from his eyes by the wind. It’s a little inconvenient, to say the least; not only are these damn tears obscuring his vision, but the sudden flurries of snow being lashed sideways severely limit how far into the forest he can see. Branches creak and snap, the wind breaking them and sending them flying overhead as the trees bend and shift, strained wood groaning as the wind whips through them, unrelenting and still picking up. It’s definitely close, and adrenaline starts to hum through the hunter’s veins as he readies himself for taking it down as soon as it shows its ugly face. He can’t see for shit at the moment, which is more than a little nerve wracking, considering he’s going to need to see his target if he wants to get it in the heart. The hunter nearly jumps when he hears the sudden nightmarish, unearthly whispering, like hundreds of voices all combining into one. It’s startlingly close at hand, too; if Dean could just see through the viciously whirling snow, he’s sure he’d be able to see the goddamn thing. 

Panic starts to lance through him as the whispers build to a crescendo, the wind screaming through the trees, which bow against the force like a twig between two fingers. Fuck, he can’t fucking see, and the damn thing is making it impossible for him to even have a fighting chance. It’s probably closing in on him, could take him out at any second, and if he doesn’t figure out what to do right now then shit is going to hit the fan. He hates not being able to see, hates how vulnerable it makes him. His best shot is firing blindly into the forest around him and hoping he hits it and stops the storm long enough to bury one of these bullets in its heart. Terribly aware of his finite supply of Tsiatko-killing bullets, Dean fires off a few rounds into the trees, spinning on his heels and searching blindly for a Bigfoot-shaped figure. The whispering suddenly cuts out completely, and Dean feels a second shot of adrenaline spike the blood singing through his veins. “Show yourself, you sonovabitch!” Dean shouts at the top of his lungs, voice hoarse from disuse. A chill runs down his spine and the hairs at the back of his neck prickle at the sensation of a malevolent presence closing in on him, right where he can’t fucking see it. Dean turns around, finger wrapped around the trigger as he wipes snow out of his eyes, and then he _sees_ , alright. 

The thing is fucking _huge,_ looming over him at at least ten feet tall, figure bony and distorted, with huge shoulders and elongated, bony hands. Two massive horns stick out of the side of its head, curving up to add two feet to its height, and that’s not even the worst part. Dean can barely make out much beyond that, except for the thing’s eyes, which are glowing red like some creature straight out of the pits of Hell. He doesn’t hesitate, squeezing the trigger down, squinting in a futile attempt to make out the line of bullets chewing up the thing’s leg. It doesn’t collapse or even stagger like he was hoping for. Instead, it opens up its mouth, which is filled with hundreds of jagged needle teeth on all sides, and lets loose a roar so loud Dean feels the earth beneath the soles of his boots tremble, the sound of it nearly deafening him as it reverberates in his bones. He’s out of rounds and the sickening knowledge that he could very well actually be eaten by this thing feels like stones dropping into his stomach, punching out his breath with the weight of realization. 

Though Dean freezes up, the Tsiatko doesn’t. The stuck gears in the hunter’s mind try to grind out a course of action to fix just how badly he’s fucked up, stubborn and unwilling as ever to accept the fact he’s royally screwed himself over, but it isn’t near fast enough. The monster is already ten feet away, the snow the only indicator of his silhouette, and Dean contemplates running at him and beating him down with the butt of his gun. Before he can attempt to even step forward, the Tsiatko raises both hands, palms facing out, and Dean jumps at the sudden deafening crash coming from overhead, the sound of it all encompassing and definitely not the wind. He jerks his head up towards the source of it and feels his mouth go dry at the sight of an immense mass of snow bearing down the side of the mountain, headed straight for him. That’s a whole fuck ton of snow, and he’s sprinting, he’s fucking running and getting nowhere because of all the snow already on the ground, holy shit, he can’t outrun this. It’s like one massive, undulating tsunami wave of snow, crashing down towards him and taking out every tree in its way. Dean risks another glance over his shoulder just in time to see it plow over the last few trees and then the world goes white, icy, and wet. Avalanche, that’s what it’s called, he finally remembers as it hits him like a ton of bricks, swallowing him up like it did everything in its path. 

Everything is a sensory blur, condensing into smears of white, green, and brown, perceiving only pain and freezing cold throughout his useless body. Nothing makes sense for what feels like hours; everything is just a collective jumble of bits and pieces of information that don’t absorb in his head. He knows he’s being thrown down the mountain, the avalanche acting as a bulldozer, and he’s helpless to do anything but allow it to happen. Dean has no way of knowing which way is up or down, if he’s in mid air or on the ground, whether something is broken or bleeding or if he’s even conscious. There is a definite, dizzying moment of freefall followed with a glimpse of blue sky, and somewhere, buried deep in the back of Dean’s head, the survival instinct Dad had drilled into him over and over kicks in, and he manages to fling his arms up over his head, exerting all of his concentration and energy into keeping them there as he falls. It must be a long fall, because it is some time before he feels himself plummet into the snowbank, tons of avalanche snow immediately bearing down on top of him. By sheer force of will, the hunter manages to keep his arms up as the snow compacts around him, hardening just like Dad had said it would had he ever been in an avalanche. 

By the time Dean is completely submerged in snow, everything once again seems frozen, all chaos suddenly ground to a halt. Now aware that his body is no longer being thrown down the mountain amid the snow like some discarded ragdoll, he dares to open his eyes, hoping that vision will help him make sense of exactly what kind of position he is in. He feels rock-hard snow all around him, nearly encasing him but for the air pocket his lifted arms have created. Solid darkness is all around him, and when he tries to move, he finds the best he can do is wiggle, the snow unyielding to any thrashing or digging he attempts. Moving his arms as much as he can, he’s able to feel out how big the air pocket he’s created above his head is, and the fact that it worked, that there’s an actual air pocket for him to breathe from makes hope flicker to life inside of him. He inhales a deep breath, taking a moment to understand the fact that he isn’t dead, that he’s still got a chance, and that’s all he needs. Okay. So he’s buried under who knows how much fucking snow, and is physically unable to get out, even if he had the energy to try harder. He isn’t sure which direction is up or down, or if the snow is still piling up outside, and he has no idea where that damn Tsiatko went. 

Dad’s survival lectures come back to the surface, and he can almost hear his Dad’s voice, going on and on about what steps to take in any given situation where survival is imperative. _Find out what you know, and what you don’t know._ His Dad had said that statement probably a hundred times, and for once, Dean is glad for it, glad for something that he _can_ do when there is an overwhelming amount that he can’t. He takes inventory of himself and his injuries, just as he’s used to doing, and something about the procedure and the familiar repetition of it helps him to not feel so helpless. It doesn’t feel like anything is broken, but then again, he’s nearly completely numb from cold, the snow having soaked through his clothing completely, the burn of ice against his exposed skin less painful now that it’s all desensitized by cold. He might be bleeding, but since he can’t really feel any specific points of pain—just a dull, full body ache—he figures it’s not really that big of a concern at the moment. Alright, check that off, now what? He knows he’s at the bottom of a mountain, or at least beneath a considerably big drop off, and that he’s deep underneath the snow, considering no sunlight penetrates through to help him see. Well isn’t that fan-fucking-tastic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by sunshinewinchesters  
> Beta'd by Astrophilla
> 
>  
> 
> **The twenty-fourth installment of our Destiel Advent Calendar!**

What’s he supposed to do now? He’s very aware of just how cold he’s gotten, and yes, while he has an air pocket, it’s nothing compared to the danger he’s facing at the hand of the elements, not even considering the fact that the oxygen supply is limited in the first place. He’s stuck buried in the snow in below freezing weather, and has no way to escape. If he can’t get himself out—which he definitely can’t—then someone else is going to have to, which means he needs to reach his damn phone and call Sam. Problem is, there’s no way in hell he’s going to be able to get his arm down to the pocket in his jeans where his phone is, assuming that it’s even still in there after the fall and not busted up. Fuck. This is fucking ridiculous. Dean scowls, again amazed at his perpetually shitty luck. How does he even get himself into these situations? The hunter grits his teeth in frustration, fighting the urge to claw hysterically at the snow and try to get to his pocket. Stay calm, he’s got to stay calm and think his way out of this. So his phone is out of the question, which mean’s he’s got to look at his other options. Which wouldn’t sound so bad, if there were any. He’s in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, with no one around. That doesn’t exactly give him many other options. Maybe he should start praying that the Sasquatch bastard is so pissed at him that it’ll dig him out so he can eat him, that way he at least has a chance at escaping. Dean mulls the thought over in his head before one word catches his attention: _pray_.

 _Cas, you got your ears on? I’ve gotten myself into a uh, sticky situation, and it’d be great if you could hear me._ Dean thinks, feeling unbelievably stupid. Doesn’t he have to say the words out loud? He’d try, but his teeth are starting to chatter so violently he half fears that his molars might shatter. The cold is really starting to become a problem, but he knows if he stops and thinks about how quickly serious it could become, then he might panic. Dean Winchester does not panic, he is a level-headed hunter who had a survivalist father and potential hypothermia is not going to be what sends him into a hysterical fit, thrashing in his little snow prison. He survived a Tsiatko-induced avalanche bulldozing him off a goddamn cliff, for fuck’s sake. Still as he has this internal pep-talk going on, the cold is beginning to burn less and less, the back of his mind taking note that his body is getting more numb, closer to imminent hypothermia. He’s not gonna worry, nope, because Cas is gonna show up and get him out of here and he won’t become a human popsicle. 

_**Dean? What happened? Are you hurt?**_ Halle-fucking-lujah, Cas heard him! And somehow Cas is communicating with him in his head! Or maybe he’s just hallucinating and hearing voices, which would actually be kinda worrying.  
_Whoa, you’ve never done that before! Unless I’m finally going insane and talking back to the voices in my head is me going off the deep end._  
_**You aren’t delusional, I am actually speaking to you through a telepathic connection. I’m not quite sure how I am able to respond to you like this, but we can examine as to why it is possible later. Right now what’s important is that you are okay. Were you injured on the hunt?**_ Cas’ worry is escalating based on the tone of his voice echoing in Dean’s head, so the hunter hurries to placate him.  
_I’m fine, I just need you to pull what you did in perdition again and haul my ass outta this fucking snow. I was hunting that Tsiatko and I must’ve pissed it off because it sent me over a cliff with an avalanche and now I’m kinda buried,_ Dean replies in his head, picturing Cas rolling his eyes and furrowing his eyebrows in concern.  
_**I’m on my way. Where are you?**_ The worried tone is replaced with that calm, authoritative one of a soldier, the one Cas uses when there is danger. Dean exhales a sigh of relief. He tells Cas the name of the mountain range, trusting Cas can just use his mojo to find him the rest of the way like he usually does. 

The hunter hopes Cas hurries up, because he’s absolutely starving. His heart and breathing are still racing each other, and he’s not sure how much of that is residual from the stand off with the Tsiatko, then being caught in an avalanche, and how much of it is from the cold. He lists off the symptoms of hypothermia, hoping he doesn’t already have it but knowing it’s likely he does. Accelerated respiration and heart rate are definitely signs, and the hunger probably is too, considering he’d just eaten before he’d left. Or had he? It’s hard to remember, and that’s not really his biggest concern at the moment anyways. What else was there? His train of thought is interrupted by Cas’ voice echoing in his head. _**I believe I am in the right area, but that is as close as I was able to locate you. The snow you are buried in is making it particularly difficult to pinpoint your exact location, but I’ll start expunging it. It may take a moment, but I’m working as fast I am able. How are you feeling, Dean?**_ Shivering, that’s something he’s not doing, Dean realizes belatedly as he continues to go through the symptoms. Definitely a problem.  
_I’m cold. And hungry._ Dean replies as his stomach clenches. Yeah, okay, maybe he should be worried, but he can’t really find it in himself to care. Right now what he actually wants is Cas. He wants to see Cas, wants to see those beautiful eyes and maybe kiss him. That would be nice. That and a burger, he could always go for a burger.  
_**Dean, are you with me?**_ Castiel’s voice startles him back to reality, the distinctly more worried edge to it catching his attention.  
_Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, don’t get your feathers in a twist._ Dean answers, trying to move his fingers and realizing he can’t even feel them. 

_**I need you to keep talking to me, Dean.**_ There it is again, that something in Cas’ mind-voice that triggers a red flag in Dean’s head. What is it, fear? Anxiety? Concern? Dean doesn’t get why he sounds so stern; he is alive, after all. Cas is somewhere above him, searching for him, everything is going to be fine.  
_Alright, how about you tell me what you want for Christmas, so when I get out of here, I can go find it. You’re a hard one to shop for, Cas._ Dean chuckles, taking note of the purple creeping at the corners of his vision. That can’t be good.  
_**That’s not of import right now. How long do you think you’ve been under the snow?**_ Dean can almost hear the frown in Cas’ voice and it brings on one of his own.  
_I dunno._ Answering Cas’ questions is starting to get too hard, because why does his angel need to know these things? They’re so hard to figure out the answer to, too demanding to try and remember. He’s starting to get sleepy, like how he feels right before he drops off after a long hunt, with his breathing slowing down and lethargy making his muscles ache. Cas needs to get his feathered ass down here fast and haul him to a bed. Preferably one with memory foam.  
_**Dean? Dean? Are you running out of oxygen? Can you feel your hands and feet?**_ Cas’ questions are coming rapid fire now, too demanding and too loud, and Dean doesn’t want to think about the answers, how’s he supposed to know? He just wants to sleep, and if Cas would just find him already, he could stuff a burger into his face and then take a seriously long nap on his bed, with Cas. Sounds good to him, so why’s it taking Cas so long? _**Dean!**_

_I can’t feel anything, Cas._ Dean replies, blinking as the purple starts to eat a little more of his field of view.  
_**Stay with me, Dean. You are going to be okay, I am going to find you. I just need you to keep talking to me.**_ Cas still sounds commanding, but a pleading note has worked its way in. Dean frowns again, or at least he thinks he does. He can’t feel his face. Where the snow begins and he ends; he doesn’t know.  
_I miss you, Cas. Where are you?_ Dean is so tired, and he just wants Cas. He’s sick of being stuck and uncomfortable and he doesn’t like how Cas’ questions make him feel confused and worried and like he has to keep thinking when all he wants is to fall asleep in Cas’ arms. _What’s going on?_  
_**You are buried in the snow. I am searching for you as we speak, but I need you to keep talking to me, okay, beloved?**_ Now _that_ sends a jolt to Dean’s frozen brain. Shit. Fuck. That’s why everything feels all wrong, that’s why Cas sounds so worried and upset. He’s got to keep talking to his angel, as draining of what little energy he has left as it seems. Plus, he’s always liked talking to Cas, anyways. He can’t honestly believe it: of all the things he’s gone up against, it’s friggin’ snow that’s going to be the thing that takes him out. The idea makes him want to laugh, and he’s not sure if the swarming of the purple blurs ringing his vision are an indicator that he’s laughing or not.  
_I can’t believe snow’s gonna be the thing that finally offs me, Cas._ Dean keeps laughing, and Cas’ anxious silence is soon interrupted.  
_**You are not going to die, Dean Winchester. I will not allow it.**_ Cas’ voice rings with authority, and something about it is comforting on a visceral level.

_**I am going to find you and get you out. Just hold on, my adored.**_ There Cas goes again, using that nickname that Dean has always secretly loved. Adored, beloved—Dean loves it when Cas calls him that. Still, Cas shouldn’t sound so upset. Everything is fine, Cas is the one who sounds all panicky.  
_We got our white Christmas at least, Cas! Probably didn’t snow in Kansas, but good thing we got snow out here!_  
_**Are you getting an adequate amount of oxygen? Is breathing difficult?**_  
_I’ve been dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know,_ Dean sings in his head, trying to lighten the mood. Sure, he’s still buried in the snow, but he always knew somewhere deep down that he wouldn’t be able to keep getting out by some stroke of luck every time something bad happened to him. Figures, of all the things that could do him in, it’s going to be the stuff him and Sam used to fantasize about when they were young and in shitty motels, waiting for Dad to get back on Christmas. At least now he does finally get his white Christmas, he thinks, laughing in his head and continuing the song. _Where the treetops glisten and children listen, to hear the sleighbells in the snow._  
_**Dean! Dean, can you hear me? Can you breathe? Dean?**_ Cas’ voice is frantic now, and Dean doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t like it. He just wants Cas to be happy, because he loves the angel so much. It’s almost Christmas, afterall. Cas should be happy for Christmas. Dean feels his mind slipping away, the purple dots now swarming across his vision, his breaths so fast and shallow. But he can’t fall asleep just yet, because in the back of his mind he knows that it’s probably not just sleep but death, and he can’t just die with Cas so unhappy. 

_I love you so much, Cas. You mean so much to me… can’t describe. I love you. It was always hard for me to say it, but it’s not now, because I love you so much. Need ya to know,_ Dean manages, and he doesn’t even have time to hear Cas’ reply before the purple dots bore into his eyes and his consciousness slips away. 

*** 

Dean comes to slowly, the gradual return of his senses and consciousness similar to those few times where he gets to sleep in, when they don’t have a hunt lined up for the crack of dawn. His body aches in that deep sleep way when he hasn’t moved for a while, his throat dry and his eyes reluctant to open. It’s not with the typical jolt of an alarm clock going off or Sam shaking him awake; this is the rare circumstance where he’s allowed to catch up on the who knows how many hours of sleep he’s missed. Not only that, but he actually feels well rested for the first time in forever. He’s reluctant to wake up all the way and have to get back to real life and figure out why he’s been allowed to sleep so late. There’s a vague, nagging feeling in the back of his mind reminding him he needs to wake up because he has things to do, things to sort out. As much as he wants to ignore it and catch a few more REM cycles, the voice grows louder and more insistent as things start to come back to him. The hunt, with the Tsiatko and the wind and that damn avalanche. Getting buried in the snow and praying to Cas. He knows he spent some amount of time down there talking to his angel, but that’s all he can remember. There’s a huge gap in between wherever he is right now—clearly not still trapped on all sides by compacted snow—and the last bit he can recall before everything is a big pit of nothing. 

Groaning, Dean opens his eyes just enough to peek through his lashes, taking inventory of his surroundings. The room is familiar, as is the mattress he’s lying on, because they’re his. Well, his and Cas’, since Cas had long ago moved into his bedroom. That’s the other element of this that is so comfortingly familiar, most likely why Dean was able to sleep so well. His angel is lying right beside him, their legs entangled, Cas cradling Dean tight to his chest, body curled protectively around him. The strength of his grip isn’t typical, however, and neither is the mound of blankets Cas has effectively cocooned them in. Dean’s pretty sure he doesn’t even have this many blankets. Regardless, just Cas’ presence alone soothes Dean and he nuzzles closer, inhaling the mountain air and sunshine-on-skin scent of him. Cas squeezes him gently, lifting his head just enough to blink owlishly down at the hunter. His bedhead is fucked to hell and his eyes are bright and Dean will never tire of seeing his angel like this in the mornings. “Dean? How do you feel?” he asks softly, rubbing his hand up and down Dean’s bare back and kissing the top of his head. Dean doesn’t miss the concern in his voice, that in of itself getting his attention.  
“Pretty damn good, considering I got to sleep in and you’re here,” Dean answers sleepily through a yawn. “‘S wrong though?” He asks, turning over so they are lying face to face. Cas tugs him closer, so they are pressed together, his arms wrapping tighter around him while his thumb strokes over Dean’s spine. Dean frowns, pressing into the touch, his worry growing. The angel is usually reluctant to let go of him in the mornings, but he’s rarely ever _this_ clingy. The last time Cas was holding him so possessively was after a demon with an axe had nearly taken his head off and… _oh_. 

“What happened?” Dean asks, reaching up to run a hand through Cas’ hair and stare into his eyes. Dean can tell a hundred times more just by looking at those baby blues than he’d ever be able to based on what the angel says. It’s just their way of communicating.  
“What do you last remember?” Cas asks, eyes searching Dean’s.  
“Uh… praying to you,” he replies, frowning as he tries to remember and is able to recall just how scared Cas had sounded with his voice in Dean’s mind. Cas is quiet for a moment, before going on.  
“Shortly after you lost consciousness, I expunged the snow above you and pulled you out. I carried you home and treated your severe hypothermia, fractured ribs, and all of your gashes, but Dean… you were so cold,” Cas’ voice goes quiet, and the angel swallows hard, a gesture that strikes Dean as painfully human. Cas must’ve been honest-to-God scared for Dean’s life, which makes the hunter wonder just how bad of a condition he was in when Cas found him.  
“Hey, I’m okay,” Dean promises, kissing Cas reassuringly. “I’m nice and toasty now, seriously. You’ve got us in one hell of a blanket tomb.” He chuckles, but Cas doesn’t laugh with him. He just cups Dean’s face in one hand, tracing his thumb over the hunter’s cheekbone, that frown still in place and the worry still in his eyes.  
“You almost died, Dean. I can’t lose you.” Cas laments. “After I healed you, I didn’t dare let go of you, because human bodies are so fragile and you were just so cold… I don’t ever want to see you, to feel you like that again. Just minutes later and I could have lost you.” 

“It’s just a little cold, Cas. Nothing I can’t come back from,” Dean tries to sound cheerful, but the look on Cas’ face is breaking his heart.  
“You are precious, beloved. I will not allow for anything to harm you, including a lapse in your health. So you are going to stay under the blankets while I make you some tea.” 

Dean opens his mouth to argue, but he also understands the serious _need_ Cas has to do something when he’s so anxiously been watching and waiting on Dean’s condition. He really does feel fine, if a little tired, but he knows if their positions were reversed, he’d definitely be doing all kinds of things to make him feel like he can keep away the cold from hurting Cas. “Okay,” Dean replies, and Cas’ eyes soften and there’s something like gratitude there as he captures Dean’s lips in a lingering kiss, just long enough to leave Dean sighing breathily as the angel disappears from bed. Cas is back just minutes later, steam rising from Dean’s favorite mug held in his hands. The angel quickly gets beneath the blankets so as to not let any heat escape, propping pillows up against the headboard for the two of them to sit up against, and Dean leans against Cas as the angel hands him the tea. He doesn’t even really like tea—tea is more of Sam’s thing—but this kind smells actually pretty good, and when he takes a drink, it’s syrupy sweet with honey and Dean actually likes it. “Thanks, Cas. For everything,” Dean adds, and Cas just hums happily in reply, pulling the blankets closer around Dean and kisses the top of his head. 

So maybe hunting down the Tsiatko turned out to be a little more problematic than expected. Frankly, Dean couldn’t care less, because he did end up making it back in time for Christmas, Cas is here keeping him warm while they’re safe in bed, and hell, they even got to have their white Christmas, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact! When I was researching this Native American legend, I came across a legend centered around these disembodied, flying cannibalistic heads that have an 'eternal hunger' because they don't have stomachs, and while those are by far the coolest creatures (and most terrifying?) of Native American lore that I've come across thus far, I chose to go with the Tsiatko for this fic (also known as Stick Indian) for plot purposes ;)


End file.
